A Series of Meetings
by maudlinrose
Summary: In which Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy meet up for the first time since Hogwarts in, of all places, a Muggle pub. One-shot. A Christmas giftfic for M.S.


_Rating: PG-13_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.  _

_Author's Note: Written for manic_subbie, who wanted a Christmas fic in which Harry and Draco get together, with a rating no higher than M.  Thanks to jessikast for beta'ing.  _

**A Series of Meetings**

When they meet in a pub in London it is a surprise for both of them.  The pub is small and reasonably busy; there are four bartenders and bouncers at the door to keep out the rough types and the obviously drunk.  The atmosphere is smoky and the lighting sparse; what little light there is appears filtered and muted, a soft blurring of reality.  It is the perfect pub for serious drinkers.  

It is a Muggle pub, and that is why they are both surprised.  There are hundreds of pubs in Muggle London, scattered on street corners and up staircases and down dark alleyways – it must be destiny, or at least some kind of preordained disaster, that has Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy in the same Muggle pub on the same cold night.  

Harry is there because he's recognised wherever he goes in the Wizarding world.  Whilst he has grown accustomed to – though not yet pleased with – the attention even his most mundane activities gain him, sometimes a person needs their privacy.  The last time he'd drunk in public, six months ago in a pub in Diagon Alley, he'd woken up the next morning to find his image plastered all over the society pages in the _Daily Prophet_.  Several dozen concerned mothers had written him letters warning him of the dangers of alcoholism, and he's never had the guts to go out again.  Like it or not – and he never has, not for one moment – Harry is a commodity.

Draco is there because he is followed by glares wherever he goes in the Wizarding world.  He made the curious mistake of following the Ministry during the Second War against Voldemort, and refused to join in the fighting on the grounds that it was best left to trained professionals rather than underage schoolboys.  This, combined with his father's arrest and imprisonment in his Fifth Year, means that many people believe he was working for the Other Side.  The only letters he ever gets tell him not to bring himself, or his Profits from Human Suffering, to various shops in Diagon Alley anymore.  He never makes the newspapers.  

So Harry walks into the pub wearing a white business shirt and trousers.  The shirt has its top buttons undone, and his tie is slung loosely around his neck.  With his hair ruffled – as usual – and his glasses crooked on his nose, he looks like a debauched junior executive – every inch the Muggle.  Nobody notices the wand holster around his hips, and indeed nobody is supposed to: that's what Concealment Charms are for.  

Harry walks into the pub and orders a beer.  Draco is sitting at one of the booths, lazily leaning against the wall and looking rumpled if not precisely drunk.  There are four empty scotch glasses on the table in front of him, and he is absently playing with a fifth when he looks up and spots Harry.  If anyone was watching, they would see Draco's eyes gleam speculatively and his lips lift upwards in what is unmistakably a smile.  But everyone in the pub is engrossed in their own drunken conversations, and don't give a snap for the facial expressions of one posh-looking man.  

Harry turns, gulping his beer as he moves.  His eyes dart about the room, flickering from person to ceiling to table to person to floor.  He manages to navigate his way to an empty booth without making eye contact – or any sort of contact – with anybody; Draco, who had had to ask five people politely to move out of his way, is dimly impressed.  The booth happens to be right next to Draco's, and this is how Draco knows that Harry hasn't noticed him.  Harry sits down, movements still slightly stiff even now, three years after the end of the War.

It is on his fourth return trip from the bar, carrying yet another pint, that Harry notices Draco.  The beer sloshes a little in its glass as Harry stops suddenly in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, emptier now than it was when he arrived.  Even after years of practise, Harry still hasn't gotten very good at looking blank, and Draco can see shock and resignation flitter across Harry's face as he processes the presence of Draco Malfoy in _this_ Muggle pub.

Harry makes up his mind to approach Draco very quickly.  They both know that the other has seen them – there is decided eye contact – and it's frankly ridiculous to pretend to ignore one another: it's been years since they last saw each other, and consequentially years since they last fought.  "Malfoy," Harry says, standing over Draco's booth.  He clearly wants to get the encounter out of the way as quickly as possible; equally clearly, he is fighting to remain still and upright.  Draco, who hasn't moved from his booth for the last three drinks, finds this amusing.  

"Oh, sssit down, Potty," he slurs, "Before you hurt yourself." Draco left behind the habit of gelling his hair at school, and it falls in distinct waves down to his ears.  His hair is almost as messy as Harry's, although it somehow looks as if the messiness is intentional.  That's the major difference between them: Harry has confidence in his abilities, but Draco has confidence in his looks.  Harry is annoyed at being told what to do, but sits down readily enough.  He is obviously not a belligerent drunk.  

"You're a dick," Harry says, but he says it lightly.  There is no real trace of anger in his voice, and if Draco didn't know better he'd think Harry was almost amused.  

They sit in silence for the first fifteen minutes, until Harry gets up to go to the toilet.  Harry, by this stage, is very unsteady and rather uncommunicative – even by his standards – and it takes him several tries to stand.  Despite this, he is happy in his state of inebriation.  Eventually, Draco, feeling his six scotches but still relatively sober (alcohol being a way of life in the Malfoy household) gives Harry a hand up, rolling his eyes in an overdramatic manner as he does so.  "Get off me," Harry demands as Draco pulls the back of Harry's shirt on his way back down to his seat.  

Draco sulks in his chair for the five minutes it takes Harry to go to the toilet – it's hardly _his fault that his fingers no longer work properly.  He thinks of, and then discards, a dozen or so cutting remarks: there isn't much he can say that Harry hasn't heard already, and fighting with the very wand-ready Boy Who Defeated Voldemort Twice is not the smartest of ideas.  Even as impaired by alcohol as he is, Draco is not stupid.  _

Harry returns, wavering his way through the muddle of people.  For a moment, Draco loses him in the crowd of dancers, mostly couples in their late twenties.  The mass of moving flesh eventually spits out Harry, though, and he comes back to Draco's booth.  Draco has ordered another drink for both of them, and they sit untouched in a sea of dirty glasses.  The bartenders are too busy to clear the table until they leave, which looks to be a while.  "What's this?" Harry asks.  Although he looks decidedly puzzled, it does not occur to him to simply walk away from Draco's table, not when they have been getting along so silently and so well.  

"It's a drink, stupid," Draco answers.  It seems obvious enough to him.  

"Yeah, whatever," Harry retorts.  For him, it's not a bad comeback, considering they're both drunk.  Everything is comparative.  

They continue to sit in silence, not even really looking at one another.  Other patrons come and go; Harry and Draco remain seated at their booth.  One of the bartenders, in a lull in the evening, comes to take away all of their empty glasses.  Without saying anything, both men take this as their cue to leave.

Harry decides to walk back to his flat.   

He leaves his wallet on the bar.  Draco picks it up and takes it home with him.

*

Draco spends a few days wondering how to get Harry's wallet back to him.  Or, rather, Draco spends a few days considering the best way to get Harry's wallet back to him in a way that won't result in him getting cursed.  He realises that the whole fact of his being at the same pub as Harry looks suspicious, and that his taking Harry's wallet from the bar was an act of stupidity unrivalled by anything else he has done since he left Hogwarts; however, he cannot change the past.

Actually, he could; time travel is possible enough.  The only problem would be getting in and out of the Muggle pub in a way that wouldn't attract the eyes of the general public but would convince his past self to leave before Potter arrives.  Not to mention, of course, the dubious legality of the whole exercise.  But… he'd had a good enough time with Potter, so long as they hadn't actually been talking to one another, and it had been nice to spend time with another wizard who hadn't automatically tried to either prostrate themselves at his feet or hex him into oblivion.  

Draco decides that there is only one thing to do: he must find out where Harry lives, Apparate or Floo to somewhere nearby, and stroll on up to Harry's door, clutching the wallet and looking suitably repentant.  Really, _repentant isn't quite the word he's looking for.  Apologetic, perhaps?  Although he isn't actually sorry that Harry was stupid enough to leave his wallet on the bar at a Muggle pub, he is sorry that it has taken so long for him to get said wallet back to Harry.  Yes, that will do nicely._

Searching for Harry Potter's home is far less difficult than Draco expects.  In the end, all he has to do is Floocall Pansy Parkinson, who works with Ginny Weasley at the Ministry, and suddenly he has an address.  It turns out that Harry doesn't live that far away from him - perhaps fifty miles, by broom.  So he throws on a set of robes, brushes his hair, and sets off.  The flight is pleasant, and the day is reasonably clear, so he enjoys himself. 

It is eleven o'clock in the morning when Draco knocks on Harry's door.  Harry answers the door himself in jeans, shirt, and messy hair.  Harry is naturally surprised to see him.  "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" he asks, puzzled.

"You left your wallet at the pub, you fool," Draco replies.  

"Oh, that's where it went!" Harry exclaims.  

"Well, _yes, Potter," Draco says patiently.  Harry steps back from the door a bit, and Draco steps inside, taking the implied invitation.  The flat is small but well-lit, second hand furniture and Quidditch posters everywhere. _

"I'd been wondering.  It's got Wizarding money in it too, and everything – but I guess you know that already." 

"I didn't go through your wallet, Potter," Draco sneers, much insulted.  "But I…" 

"If you didn't go through it, how come it took you so long to get it back to me?  I lost it almost a week ago."  Harry has a strange look on his face, like he almost but not quite understands what's happening.

"I didn't know where you lived," Draco mumbles.

"Why didn't you Owl it to me, then?" Harry says.  

"Er," Draco mutters.  There's a pause, before he continues, "Because I need your address to Owl you something, you idiot." 

"That's what Self-Addressing Postage Charms are for, dickhead," Harry replies.  "So, anyway, hand it over, Malfoy." 

Draco reaches in his pocket triumphantly, but finds only empty space.  "Um," he says.  "I know I've got it on me somewhere." 

"I hope you don't expect me to search you," Harry says, unimpressed.

Draco carefully pats all four of his pockets.  All are empty.  "I must have left it at home, Potter, sorry," he says, feeling very stupid.  

"The fuck would you go and do that for?" 

"Well, I have better things to do than return your stupid wallet, don't I?  I'll just go home and find it – I probably left it next to the Floo or something – and Owl it to you, now that I know where you live and everything.  _I'm really very sorry for the inconvenience," he grits out, as if it pains him._

"No, hang on," Harry says, "Why don't I just Floo with you back to your place, grab it, and then go?  Save you the trip back here." 

"Yeah, alright," Draco replies.  

The Floo back to Draco's flat is uneventful, and Harry's wallet is right where Draco predicted, sitting next to the jar of Floo powder and looking exactly like he last saw it.  "Here you go," Draco says.  Draco's flat is all clean lines and elegant furniture; planned by his mother for him, Harry thinks.

"Thanks," Harry answers.

He's about to leave when Draco suddenly exclaims, "Shit, where's my broom?" 

"Fucked if I know where you left your broom, Malfoy," Harry retorts.

"I must have left it next to _your front door, when I was attempting to return _your _wallet, Potter," Draco says.  "And it's my Firebolt Mark Six." _

"I don't care," Harry says.  

"Look, can you just Owl it back to me if it is at your place?" Draco asks.  

Harry pauses for a minute, thinking, and sighs.  "Why don't you just come back, get your broom, and then fly back here?" 

"Thanks," Draco says, grateful.  

So they Floo back to Harry's flat, and Draco's broom is indeed propped up next to the front door.  Draco takes it with a nod of thanks and flies home.

*

Draco is very surprised when, the next week, he receives an owl from Harry claiming that he left his gloves at Harry's place.  He hadn't noticed flying fifty miles without gloves, but supposes it might have been possible.  He shows up at Harry's flat the next morning, with the intention of getting his gloves back and leaving as quickly as possible.  It doesn't quite happen that way, because at the first sight of Harry he finds himself demanding "Why didn't you just _send the gloves back to me?_"

"Hedwig gets tired easily nowadays." Harry answers with a charming smile.  

"It's a pair of gloves, Potter," Draco says flatly.  "They're not exactly heavy.  But why didn't you just hire a courier owl then?" 

"I don't like to do that," Harry says.  "It upsets Hedwig."  Somehow, without really thinking about it, they move into the living room.

"She's your bloody owl, you idiot," Draco retorts.    

"And she's the first pet I ever had.  I don't expect you, of all people…." 

"Why not me?"  Draco demands.  "Are you saying that I don't care about my pets?" 

"No…" Harry says hurriedly.  "But.  Would you like a cup of tea or something?" 

"Not from _your stupid kitchen, Potter," Draco sneers.  "But I suppose we could go to a café." _

"Yeah, alright," Harry says, and looks surprised the instant the words escape from his mouth.  

The café is small and quiet, tucked behind a bookstore in Boleyn Alley.  Draco drinks his tea politely – his mother trained him in etiquette – and Harry gulps down his hot chocolate.  They both shovel down their cake.  

As afternoons go, Draco reflects once he's back at his flat, it wasn't too bad. 

*

Three days later, Draco sends Harry an owl, inviting him out to lunch.  It's a tentative invitation, carefully worded and written on plain parchment, of the sort that Draco never uses unless he really, really doesn't want to offend or shock the recipient.  

He is somewhat shocked to receive a reply the next morning at breakfast.  He is even more surprised to find that Harry apparently thinks that going out to lunch is a good idea.  The letter informs Draco that Harry will meet him outside the same café at about midday, and that Harry will bring with him the scarf that Draco apparently left behind him the last time they met up.

Draco reflects that he seems to have gained the habit of leaving his possessions behind in odd places, and stifles the thought that it's a good thing Harry is there to make sure that nothing ever actually gets lost.

They meet up fifteen minutes before noon, both having got there early for reasons they are not willing to express.  The waitress doesn't look surprised to see them, even though they are the café's only customers, but Draco thinks that perhaps waitresses don't care enough about their job to be surprised at what they do or do not see.

"Yeah, so Ron's got a job in the Department of Mysteries and won't talk about it, ha ha," Harry says.  Draco finds that he's actually interested in what Harry has to say, even though he couldn't care less about what Ron Weasley is doing with his life.  

"Vincent and Gregory are doing well, I think," he answers in reply to a question about what his old school friends are doing.  "They've gone over to America; still owl me occasionally though.  I kind of miss them," he reflects, "As much as anyone would miss their shadows.  We never really talked much, but they were still good friends, up until the War." 

Draco's conversation is full of conditionals.  He adds disclaimers to everything, and does not admit to any single fact.  Nothing in his world is unequivocal.  

Harry, for reasons unknown, finds this sort of thing charming.  He leaves before Draco does, needing to get to a meeting with Hermione.  

His watch – he'd been toying with it – sits innocently next to his empty plate.  

*

The next conversation starts with "You left your watch behind, Potter." They're at the café again, having arranged to meet up for lunch once more.   Again – and it's becoming habit – they both arrive early, and the waitress doesn't even bother to bring over a menu.  

Harry looks tense.  "Yeah, sorry," he says, but he looks preoccupied.

It prompts Draco to ask something he has never, ever asked Harry before.  "Are you alright?  I mean, you look sort of ill." He's not faking the necessary concern, but somehow it doesn't come out sounding that sincere.  He hasn't had much practise at sincerity, after all.

"Yeah," Harry looks up the table and attempts a brief smile.  "Yeah, I'm fine." 

"Saw your interview with Mulfringham in the _Prophet_ this morning.  Thought it didn't read too badly, considering you're a spectacled git." 

"Yeah?" Harry asks, and the smile becomes real.  After a moment, he adds, "They keep pressuring me, you know, to accept more interviews, but I don't really want to." 

"Why not?  I mean, I can understand that you don't want the fame or something, but you have to realise that they're going to publish whatever you do.  You saved the world, Potter, _twice_.  Thanks for that, incidentally."  Draco is frankly bemused, but trying very hard not to show it.

"Yeah, I know, that's why I don't want to talk to anyone.  If they're going to publish anyway, I mean." 

"But… if you accepted interviews, you'd have more control over what they actually wrote about you."  

"You think?  Anyway, I'll have a slice of chocolate cake and some chips," Harry says to the waitress, who is hovering.  

"Yeah, I do… cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake, thanks." 

The food comes and they talk about the weather as they eat.  Hermione Granger has a good job now, and Pansy Parkinson is marrying Adrian Pucey, which doesn't surprise anyone, according to Draco.  

"I did it on purpose, you know," Harry says abruptly.  

"Did what?" Draco asks, after he's swallowed the last mouthful of his cake.  

"Left my watch behind, last time." 

"Oh," says Draco, and after a pause while this filters through his brain.  "Oh...  So you…" 

"I like you, Malfoy," Harry says.  

Draco would have choked, if he'd been eating anything at the time.  "As in…."  His voice trails off into silence.  

"Yeah," Harry says, and he looks as if he regrets opening his stupid mouth.  

Draco stares at a spot just beyond Harry's left ear.  "D'you want to go out to dinner sometime, then?" 

"That'd be nice," Harry says, and grins at Draco.  Draco smiles back.

*

They go to dinner at a Muggle restaurant, because while they can explain having lunch together as some kind of bizarre coincidence – even if it happens repeatedly – having dinner together, alone, dressed in nice clothing and looking for the world as if they are on a date, cannot be explained away.  Harry doesn't want to risk his love life ending up as yet another headline, and Draco doesn't want anyone to hate him more than they already do.

As usual, they're both there a good quarter of an hour early, and so have to sit down in the waiting area before the waitress can take them to their table.  Harry orders a beer and Draco a glass of white wine; the waitress brings it over to them with a smile and an "It'll be about fifteen minutes." 

They exchange pleasantries: the weather, Ron Weasley's latest tale about his job, Pansy Parkinson's wedding plans, Quidditch.  Neither mentions that this evening is, in fact, a date, though whether that is because they are in a public place or because they don't want to acknowledge it themselves remains unclear.  Draco drinks his wine carefully, and Harry gulps at his beer.  The waitress comes back and leads them to a small table in a corner, as requested, and leaves them with the menu and a pitcher of water.  

"So," Harry says, as he reads the menu, "Why'd you ask me out?" 

Draco coughs a little, not expecting the question.  "Because I wanted to, I suppose.  You said you liked me, and you're not as much of a twat as you were at school, so…." 

"I put your father in Azkaban, though."  Harry is, for one reason or another, determined to find out exactly what is going on between him and Draco, and asking difficult questions seems to be the way to go.

Draco raises an eyebrow.  "That's true, I suppose, and I have to admit I hated you for that at the time.  Somewhere in the middle of the whole War, though – and I'm glad I stayed out of it as much as possible, I have to say – it became clear that it wasn't your fault you were the Boy Who Lived and destined to defeat the Dark Lord, any more than it was my fault my father decided to try his luck with said Dark Lord and get himself imprisoned." 

"So you don't care about that, then?"

"It's not that I don't care, exactly.  It's just that you didn't make my father do the stupid things he did, and I can't blame you for being the one who happened to get him caught." 

"You used to, though." 

"Harry, I was _fifteen.  You were _fifteen. _ We were _at school_.  I'd like to think I've grown up since then, even a little."  Draco is surprised when Harry doesn't say anything at his use of his first name, but continues.  "Besides, it's not as though I wasn't a complete prat to you." _

"Yeah, you were," Harry smiles.  "Anyway, I think that's the waitress coming over now."  It is, in fact, the waitress, and she sets down their plates and leaves without doing more than smiling at them briefly.  The food looks good, for a cheap Muggle restaurant.  

They don't say much while they eat, but every moment they spend together is somehow confirmation that this is a good thing.  They don't exchange seductive glances, but their silence is companionable and both of them are having a good time.  That on its own is rare enough to be worth the effort.

Somehow they end up lingering over dessert, chocolate pudding for Draco and fruit sponge for Harry.  The mood is changed abruptly when Draco says "I think I want to kiss you, actually." 

"What, _now?"  Harry splutters.  "Here?" _

"No, fool," Draco sighs.  "I don't fancy getting kicked out for inappropriate displays of affection." 

"Affection, huh?"  And Harry is grinning wildly.  "We could go back to my place for coffee, if you wanted to." 

"That sounds good," Draco says, and they pay the bill and leave, making polite comments about the standard of food and the lovely service as they go.

It's a short trip back to Harry's flat – they Apparate – and then inside to his living room, where Draco suddenly feels uncomfortable and out of place, and Harry regrets not cleaning.  "Do you want a drink?" Harry asks eventually.

"That'd be nice, thanks," Draco replies.  They're standing almost close enough to touch, and as Harry turns to leave Draco gives in to his frustration and grabs Harry's sleeve.  

"Um," Harry says.  

"Yes," Draco says, and they stumble into a kiss.  It's a slow, tentative kiss, full of uncertainty; the kind of kiss that nobody dreams of, but… Harry's hands twine up Draco's neck and down to rest in the small of his back, and Draco rests one hand on Harry's shoulders and the other hasn't yet let go of Harry's sleeve so is twisted uncomfortably behind his neck.  As first kisses go, it's fairly good.

When Harry pulls back, he looks somewhat wary, but there is a smile in his eyes and his glasses are misting.  "That was…." He trails off, and so starts their second kiss.  Draco ends up pressed against the wall, hands scrabbling for purchase in Harry's hair, with a hand inching slowly up his shirt and an erection pressing into his thigh.  

They pause to breathe.  "Yeah," Draco says coherently, "it was," and he's smiling too, grinning uncontrollably.  It's a good look for him, hair tousled and buttons undone, leaning against the wall as if it's the only thing keeping him upright.  

Harry steps back a little.  "Would it be wrong of me to invite you to my bedroom?" he asks, and nibbles at his lip.

"No," Draco answers, "I don't think so." 

*

The next morning, Draco is woken up by a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  He rolls over properly and opens his eyes, and the first thing that comes out of his mouth is "I suppose you want me to go now?"  It's a question, and he's gratified to see that Harry looks horrified.  

"No, of course not," Harry says.  "I just wanted to find out if you were awake or not." 

"Well, I am," Draco says.  "What do you plan to do about it?" 

He is answered with a kiss, and another, and another.  They don't make it out of bed for a while.

*

"I keep leaving things at your place," Harry complains.

"Perhaps you should move in," Draco replies tentatively.  "Then it wouldn't be a problem." 

"Alright," Harry answers.  

**The End.******


End file.
